Blue Collar (A Boys Behaving Badly Anthology Book 2)

by Delilah Devlin

  “Where might a fella find her on a Friday night if he was looking? In the pub?”

  Today’s Friday. Is he asking me out? Sam planned on soaking in the bathtub after shearing.

  “The pub? Sure.” Apparently, her mouth had other ideas. “Will you be there?”

  “I reckon,” he said with a smile. Then he gestured at his clothes. “Do you mind a bloke who smells like sheep?”

  “I love the smell of sheep.” The smell was of long gone summer afternoons playing beneath the shearing shed, running the gauntlet under the pens, and dodging the inevitable rain of droppings from above. In a flash, she knew exactly who the handsome stranger was. She’d taken over Dad’s accounting and was accruing his wages just last night. “You’d better hustle,” she said, touching a finger to his chest. “Old man Robinson will spit bullets if you’re late.”

  Patrick looked at his watch. “Shit, you’re right.” Then he did a double-take. “Wait, what? How did you—?”

  But Sam had already turned on her heel and run into the store. She leaned back out the door and called, “See you soon, Patrick.”

  Sam approached the shearing shed with butterflies in her stomach.

  “Hey, Dad. What’s up, Danger.” She climbed the ladder to floor level. Dad was there with her baby brother Will, who was roustabout today, collecting fleeces and sweeping the boards. Patrick had his back turned and hadn’t seen her yet.

  “Pat, meet your new partner.”

  Sam tried not to beam. She’d only seen him ten minutes ago, and already she was hungry to feast again on those long, smooth biceps.

  “Pleased to meet—” Pat broke off when he recognised her. “Hey. It’s you.”

  “Hi, Patrick,” she said, losing the battle not to grin like a schoolgirl. “I’m Sam. Robinson.” Surprise, I’m the boss’s daughter. She turned to Dad. “We met at the shop.”

  Pat frowned. “What are you doing—?”

  “Shearing,” Dad said. “Same as you.”

  “But…” Patrick looked dubious. “But she’s a sheila.”

  Sam felt an unexpected spark of anger.

  “I think you mean ‘shearer’,” Dad said, with a note of warning. “I’m not leaving forty ewes in the pens all weekend, so Sam’s helping to finish them today.”

  “Geez, Reg, forty? Can she even shear?”

  “I’m standing right here, Pat.” How quickly the tides turned. She’d mooned over him just a minute ago, and now she breathed fire. “I sheared my own mob last summer. Fifty lambs.”

  “Lambs.”

  She felt a chill of doubt when she realised his point. Ewes were bigger, they had a full year of wool, and not least of all, they were niggly as a cut snake. They took twice as long to shear—and, goddammit, she knew that—but when Dad had asked if she could finish forty-odd ewes, like an idiot she’d said yes.

  Dad stepped in before she could make a worse fool of herself. “Four an hour, Sam. Give me thirty-two, and Pat can pick up the rest, right, Pat?”

  Pat just blinked. “You’re the boss, Boss.” Then he walked off to the shearing stands, leaving Sam to follow like a...well, a lost sheep.

  So, this was it. Not what she’d expected, precisely, but still she was ready. She took off her jacket and hung it on a peg. As she stepped to the catching pen for the first time, she caught Pat admiring the way she filled out her blue work singlet.

  “When you’ve finished sight-seeing,” she said. “Maybe we can shear some sheep.”

  Sam chose her first ewe and dragged it back to the stand.

  “Phew,” Pat said. “You got a ripe one first drop.”

  She looked down at the sheep, and then at the trail of shit and maggots leading back to the pen. Oh, great. Fly-struck. She almost visibly deflated. The urge to give up right then was strong, but no way was she fading out before even starting her shears.

  She yanked the old and knotted cord, and the handpiece buzzed to life in her fist. Here goes nothing. She lifted one hoof up to the ewe’s chest and gagged at the beshitted, maggot-ridden, raw flesh underneath. This was not the most disgusting thing she’d ever do as a grazier, but at her age, it was a new personal best.

  “Hold still, darlin’,” she said, jamming the hoof into the ewe’s belly. “Sammy’s going to make it all better.”

  She shaved the shit-caked fuzz all the way down to the flayed, bleeding flesh around the stump of its tail, earning herself a tortured bleat. Poor thing must be in agony. The work was slow and disgusting, and Pat had finished three before she finally started on the clean wool.

  The ewe was beyond frightened, and every time it kicked, Sam jerked back the handpiece, thinking she’d nicked its skin. The ewe’s behavior threw her confidence, and the fleece came off slowly in short, narrow blows that left her stand littered in shavings.

  By the time she’d finished and treated the flayed, fly-struck skin with antiseptic, the shearing had taken her forty minutes. But the effort was worth it. Your first fly-struck sheep was like a rite of passage as a shearer, and although she hadn’t nailed it, she hadn’t failed it either. Pat didn’t say anything. She suspected he was secretly impressed she had stuck it out.

  She glanced over, not intentionally, but his body naturally drew the eye. He had a nice sheen of sweat on his neck and shoulders, and the smooth curves of his biceps and triceps bulged handsomely from the heavy upper body work.

  Mmm, I could use some heavy upper body work.

  Maybe he felt her gaze, because he looked up mid-blow and offered her a wink. Sam smiled back, but he was already looking back down at his hands.

  Don’t be stupid, Sam. He’s just eye candy. Pretty to look at, right up to the point he opens his frigging mouth about sheilas in the shearing shed.

  Sam blinked back the sweat. Her ewe bleated miserably—the last one before smoko. “Yeah, I know,” she sighed. “Me, too.” Her back ached, and she felt like she was shearing in a pool of molasses. When Pat snapped off his shears, she was still in position two with at least ten minutes’ work remaining.

  “Go get a cuppa,” Pat said as Will cleaned his stand. “Grab Sam’s fleece after smoko.”

  When they were alone, Pat stepped close and switched off her shears.

  “Give me the handpiece, Sam.”

  Intimidated by his muscular good looks, Sam didn’t think about it. She couldn’t. So she did as he asked, and Pat dropped down beside her and sheared her ewe.

  What just happened?

  The handpiece, that felt so tentative in her own fist, made long, confident blows, and Sam could see the colour change where he cut so much closer to the pink skin. She could only stand there, empty-handed, bereft and purposeless—a woman with no place in the shearing shed. Not even at her own stand.

  “Your comb’s a bit dull.” Pat darted a glance and completely missed the boiling volcano of humiliation. “Grab one of mine after smoko.” He sat up the ewe, finished the last half-dozen blows down its rump, then sent it scampering down the chute, half pink and half creamy white. “Let’s get a cuppa. You look like you could use one.”

  That was it. The proverbial straw. Sam jabbed a finger into his chest. “Don’t you ever touch my shears again.” She had one more good sentence in her before the tears, and it came out in a low growl. “I don’t need you to shear for me, Pat Caldwell.”

  “Sam, I was only trying to—”

  She turned and left him. If she didn’t look, maybe she could stop from crying. She had twelve minutes to get her shit back together. Tea would help.

  Sam felt a presence behind her. She took another sip from her steaming mug and kept tightening the screws on the new comb. “What do you want, Pat?” The anger had waned nearly as fast as it flared.

  “I’m not sure what I did wrong, but I want to say I’m sorry.”

  She turned around. Holding the handpiece gave her confidence—at the very least she could brain him with it. “I’m not some princess you can save, Pat. I’ll do my own share of the work.”

&
nbsp; “I was a first-timer, once.”

  He was standing close, and Sam could smell him. Not the smell of sheep—that was everywhere—but the smell of a man at work, and against her better judgement the tang sent a shiver of lust down her spine.

  He touched her hand. “It’s hard. There’s no shame in asking for help.”

  “But I didn’t ask.” She craned her neck to look up into his eyes. “You just took over.”

  “I get it.” He seemed to consider her words carefully. “I should’ve asked. I’m sorry.”

  That right there, that was the real apology, and she felt a weight lift. “Thank you.” She brandished the handpiece and offered him a grin. “We should get back to it. They won’t shear themselves, you know.”

  Pat smiled, and his eyes darted down to her lips.

  Oh Jesus, is he going to kiss me?

  “C’mon, you two,” Dad grunted, walking past the door. “Crochet circle is over. Let’s shear some sheep.

  “Coming.” Then Pat was gone. And so was the tantalizing moment.

  The second session went heaps better, and at lunch, Pat left a space on the bale next to him.

  Sam took the hint with a secret smile. She selected a handful of sandwiches and accidentally-on-purpose settled back with her arm touching Pat’s. His sweat had dried already, but his flesh was hard and rough, prickling with dark blond hairs. Her own skin was soft and velvety, and the contrast made his touch feel even more manly—if that was possible.

  Having Dad right there while she explored the edges of a new romance made her feel like a teenager again. She stared at her hands, rubbing absently at the reddened skin on her index finger from gripping the shears.

  “Blister?” Pat cradled her fingers to inspect for himself.

  “Not yet.” She thrilled to the gentle touch of his thick, callused hands. “I brought Band-Aids, though. Prior proper preparation, right, Dad?”

  Dad rewarded her with a rare smile. “They didn’t teach you that at school, hey?”

  “Band-Aids won’t work,” Pat said. “Need to tape it. There’s tape in the first-aid, right, Boss?”

  “Believe there is.” Dad’s eyes darted between them on their shared wool bale.

  He knows exactly what’s going on. “Pat, will you show me?” Sam asked sweetly.

  Pat seemed to consider the offer for a moment, perhaps weighing the wisdom of sneaking off with the boss’s daughter. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I reckon I might.”

  The first-aid kit was a rusty metal box behind the shearing stands that had probably been white in the 1970s. It might have even had a red cross on the front. Pat found the Elastoplast tape and brandished a little pair of scissors that looked funny in his big hand.

  Sam held up her finger, making it clear she expected him to treat her. That made him smile again, and Sam decided she quite liked watching him smile. When he was done, she turned her finger left and right to inspect his work. “Mum used to kiss it better when she finished.”

  He didn’t lunge, he simply cupped Sam’s nape in his palm and kissed her. Between that hand and his lips, she was trapped—trapped in the sweetest, heart-thuddingest way imaginable. The kiss laid bare a whole new vista of unsuspected desire—the desire to be with a powerful, attractive man who knew exactly what he wanted. And then took it.

  “I meant my finger,” she whispered.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “No,” she admitted. “I didn’t.” She kissed back. She wasn’t sure whether she’d done so the first time. Getting her breath was hard. Meh, breathing’s overrated. She stole another. “You taste nice,” she said, unsure now where to take the conversation.

  “Sheepy?”

  Sam laughed. “Shearers are just crass.” She relaxed her body against his, her soft curves brushing delightfully against his hard muscles. “If I’d known you were so awful, I never would have come.”

  “Yes, you would have.”

  “Yes,” she said. Her lips closed in again. “I would.”

  Sam’s resilience faded after lunch, but looking up now and again at the clockwork perfection of Pat’s long, muscular body made the effort worthwhile. How did he do it? Every part of her ached.

  C’mon, darlin’, you’re the last one. Be nice for Sammy, huh?

  Position one, belly and crutch. Position two, chest, neck, and foreleg. Nearly half way. Rolling down into position three, her back gave an agonised cramp that unhinged her knees. She used the sheep for balance, holding the dangerous shears up off the skin.

  And then the animal kicked.

  With Sam’s weight balanced so precariously, the ewe bucked like a wrestler pinned in the first round, and the shears slipped and tore a long rent in its belly.

  “Oh, you niggly old bitch!” Sexist profanity just seemed to come naturally in the shearing shed. “Serves you right!”

  “Um, Sam,” said Will. “You’re getting blood on the wool.”

  “Oh crap! What have I done?”

  The ewe bleated miserably.

  Blood ran everywhere, staining the wool stubble around the wound, running down the ewe’s teats. Sam pressed her hand over the wound, and blood seeped through her fingers. “Dad!”

  “Dad’s gone to town,” Will said. “He left me in charge of the branding.”

  Did he leave you in charge of dying sheep, too?

  As the panic rose, time fractured and broke all her perceptions into fragments, leaving her looking impotently at her red-soaked hand, and Will staring with wide-eyed dismay.

  The tears that threatened earlier finally came and transformed the shed into a streaky blur. She heard Pat’s shears go silent. “Pat, help!”

  “Fuck a duck, Sam. You want some mint sauce with that? Stitch her up before she bleeds out.”

  “I don’t know how!” she shrieked. “Help me, or she’s going to fucking die!”

  “I am, see?”

  Somehow he was already there, needle and thread ready. How did he do that?

  “They don’t teach first-aid at uni, huh?”

  “Not with the blood,” she whispered. “They don’t do it with the blood.”

  Pat sewed up the wound, and with each stitch he pulled tight, the bleeding slowed, and the weight lifted from Sam’s chest.

  “There. Now she’s got a nice scar and a story to tell.” He peeled off his singlet and used it to wipe up the blood. “Finish her off, and let’s get out of here.”

  Shearing? Maybe—if she could take her eyes off Pat’s naked torso. Was he beautiful before? Now, he was magnificent. Eight hours of work had left his pants stiff with lanolin and his hard body drenched with sweat.

  “See something funny?”

  Sam realised she was smiling. “Just contemplating the new dress code.”

  “Dress code, huh?” he said. “So when exactly does that kick in for the other shearers?” His gaze darted to Will.

  “Hey, Danger,” she said. “Why don’t you get onto the branding? I’ll look after things in here.”

  Will smiled at the sexual innuendo as only a fifteen-year-old boy can. “You better.” He propped his broom against the wall and took the short cut through the chute, then they were alone. Except for the sheep.

  “C’mon, slacker.” Pat helped Sam to her feet, and holding her from behind in a light embrace, he slipped his callused fingers beneath her singlet and over her stomach.

  She felt sure he would cup her breasts—she ached for it—but he skipped around them and lifted the singlet over her head. “Pick up your handpiece, shearer.”

  Sam shivered. Standing with her small body spooned into his, she’d never felt so vulnerable, so sexy—so alive. She reached for her shears, and the movement pressed the cleft of her backside into his groin.

  If I was wearing heels, he could fuck me while I sheared.

  Pat stroked down her forearm and clasped his hand loosely over hers. “Let’s shear.”

  And guiding her blows, together they finished the final ewe.

  “It�
�s like a dance. She wants to know you’re in charge, so let her feel it.”

  With his big left hand cupping her bare midriff just below her breasts, Sam knew exactly how she felt. The self-assured, independent woman inside could reassert later, but for now, she was completely and utterly his. When she snapped off the shears and sent her most beautifully close-shorn ewe down the chute, her body was hot with desire and thrumming with desperate want.

  She turned and laced her fingers behind his neck, trembling at the erotic skin-on-skin contact. Pat kissed her and took one breast in his hand, letting her know he was there. Letting her know he was in charge. In the subtlest movement, she offered her body, and he lifted her off the floor.

  “The classing room,” she whispered, breaking their kiss only for the moment needed to announce where he would have her for the first time.

  Pat walked—the same laconic, unhurried movement she’d witnessed when she’d first seen him that morning. Yes, he wanted her, but rushing would make the moment no sweeter. Still kissing, he sat her on the edge of the classing table and unsnapped her bra in just three fumbling attempts, which Sam found charming.

  His hands found her bare breasts. They didn’t just hold this time, they stroked and teased and discovered all of the things that made Sam squirm with lust, and then used them to drive her into a lather of womanly want.

  Exhibiting her own inexpert seductive talents, she fumbled his pants undone, leaving only a pair of trunks between her and the object of her desire. She could feel his shape underneath, thick with excitement and heaving with every touch. She dipped inside and closed around his impressive girth with an urgency that made them both gasp. The ensuing fight against her own pants was frenzied but mercifully brief, leaving her gloriously naked, spread and vulnerable with her glistening sex open and pink before his rearing shaft.

  “I don’t have a—”

  “I’m safe.” Sam may have been in a drought, but she was still on the pill. Prior proper preparation, and all that shit.

  “You mean you want me to pull out?”

  “No.” She drew him into a kiss. “I don’t.” Sam touched his cockhead to her soft inner lips.